


An Innocent Cicisbeo

by Mithen



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Alternate Universe - Regency, Arranged Marriage, Identity Issues, M/M, Romance, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-01-24 00:38:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1585319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithen/pseuds/Mithen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clark Kent fled a loveless marriage and remade himself into Kal Starr, male escort and gem of the <i>beau monde</i>.  Now his latest client is infamous fop and pink of the <i>ton</i>, Bruce Wayne, Earl of Gotham--and his estranged husband!  When Bruce fails to recognize him, Kal struggles to keep from becoming entangled once more with the man who spurned his affection, both to protect his secret double life as a crime-fighter on the foggy streets of London--and his heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the summary for the Harlequin romance [An Innocent Courtesan](http://www.harlequin.com/storeitem.html?iid=31154). "Cicisbeo" was an actual term of the time for a male "gallant and lover" of a married woman...I have manufactured a cheerfully pansexual Regency for the purposes of this story.

Kal Starr put the last touches on his pomade, letting that one unruly curl fall down on his forehead in the manner that he had been told was particularly charming. Downstairs he could hear the sounds of the pianoforte and the gentle murmur of polite conversation as patrons began to arrive for the evening. He adjusted his starched collar--the points fashionably but never vulgarly high--and was brushing a bit of of lint from his cream-colored kerseymere breeches when Steven Lombard stuck his head around the door. 

"Starr, are you going to fuss in the mirror all night? The lords and ladies of the great metropolis of London await us!"

Kal lifted an eyebrow at Steve's clothing, from the well-padded shoulders down to the rosettes of his dancing-pumps. "Expecting a visit from Oliver Queen tonight?" Lombard was far from the wittiest cicisbeo at _Il Pianeta,_ but even Kal had to admit no one could dance better than him.

"Jealous?" Lombard waggled his eyebrows and leered. "If you'd hone your skills in the art of love, Starr, maybe you could catch a better patron than that bluestocking princess of yours."

"I don't need to hone my skills in anything, Lombard," Kal snapped. The cicisbei and cyprians at _Il Pianeta_ were free to negotiate a sexual relationship with their patrons, but it was by no means required--most clients simply wanted an evening of conversation and pampering, dancing and flirting with someone for whom they would be the center of the universe...for a little time. That Kal Starr had always kept it at that level had been remarked on, but beyond Lombard's teasing no one seemed to mind.

Lombard laughed and spread his hands. "No need to get prickly, Starr. Ready to get to work?"

"I should hope so," said an acerbic voice from the hall, and Kal hurried from his room to find Lois Lane waiting, tapping one foot impatiently, the ostrich feather in her black velvet turban nodding in time. With a rustle of muslin, she shooed them down the hall. "According to Mr. White, we must all be on our best behavior this evening--a new gentleman will be stopping in and he wants us to be truly captivating. Oh Kal," she said disapprovingly, "Won't you wear the sage-green waistcoat instead of that scarlet? It wouldn't clash so much with the dark blue tailcoat."

"But I wish to stand out," he said, kissing her on the cheek. "And some people like a little clash."

And then they swept down the great staircase into the _salon_ of _Il Pianeta._

The evening was in full swing by the time Princess Diana arrived, wearing a simple white dress in the Grecian fashion--when she had arrived in London four years ago, the story went, she had singlehandedly set off a craze for all things Greek. Kal went up to her and bowed deeply, kissing her outstretched hand, quite aware that the motion showed off his calves to their best advantage. "Princess," he murmured. "As always, your beauty enhances our humble _salon_ as the stars enhance the empty night sky."

She laughed and pulled him to a seat where they could talk more easily. Many people watched them go with jealousy in their eyes: some for him, others for her. Princess Diana of Themyscira was known to be Kal's special _patron_ , so none interrupted their conversation.

"What does my mistress's schedule hold this week?" Kal said. "Another ball? Perhaps a trip to the theater?" He often escorted her to such events, although she had told him frankly that his dancing still needed improving.

"I was thinking," she said lightly, her eyes scanning the room, "That perhaps we could get together Friday afternoon for another training session."

Kal's heart leapt and he made no attempt to hide the delight in his face. "My lady's whim is my command," he said, eliciting another pleased gurgle of laughter from her.

"You are busy tonight," she said, her eyes scanning the room. Across the way, Steve Lombard was dancing with Oliver Queen and Lady Dinah Lance in turns, and it was anyone's bet which of the two--or both together--would be accompanying him upstairs later. Catherine Grant was sitting on a loveseat with a politician's head in her lap, listening raptly to his discussion of the hardships of his work as he twined a lock of her golden hair around his finger. Lois Lane was everywhere at once--pouring drinks, playing the pianoforte, getting into spirited arguments about women's rights with delighted pinks of the _ton._

"We have been doing quite well lately," Kal agreed. "It helps to have the patronage of an enchanting, cultured princess."

She rapped him lightly on the back of his hand with her fan, her eyes dancing, and was about to speak when the doors swung open and a newcomer arrived.

His jet-black hair was carefully arranged in the newly-fashionable Brutus style, his intricately-folded cravat stuck through with a diamond pin. His shirt-points were so high and sharp they looked as if they might cut his earlobes, and his waistcoat under the coat of dark brown superfine was thickly embroidered with silver spangles that caught the light. From his deliberately-disheveled curls to his immaculately polished black Hessian boots with the golden tassels, it was clear the man was a Corinthian indeed, a dandy of the most elegant type. He gazed around the room, looking down his nose at all and sundry, and smiled a wry and wicked smile.

"What's wrong?" The concern in Diana's voice made Kal realize he was on his feet, the hubbub of the room fading around him as he stared at the man in the doorway. She tugged him back down to the seat with a hand that was gentle yet implacable, and he sat with a distinctly ungenteel thump. "Have you met him before? That's Bruce Wayne, the Earl of Gotham."

"I know," Kal murmured, managing not to add, as Bruce started to walk towards them: _And he's my husband!_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unexpectedly faced with his husband in the salon of Il Pianeta, Kal Starr remembers their meeting, their wedding--and the unlikely path he took to his new career.

**Four years ago**

Clark Kent was carrying a sheep slung over his shoulders when he met his betrothed for the first time. 

"Clark?" Standing in the barn door, Jonathan Kent looked chagrined; the stranger looked, on the other hand, perfectly at ease. "This is--this is Bruce Wayne. I believe I've mentioned him."

Clark stared, then remembered his manners. "Of course." The sheep on Clark's shoulders gave a petulant bleat, and Clark hastily let it slide to the ground, where it shook its head and glared at everyone. Clark bowed, suddenly acutely aware of his rough nankeen trousers and heavy boots. "My Lord."

"I'm aware this is an...abrupt meeting." Clark looked up again to find the man regarding him with a smile that was faintly amused but not mocking. He was dressed in well-tailored yet simple clothes in sober colors that subtly showed off his broad shoulders and trim waist. "The fact is, I wasn't even certain that your father would remember the agreement he made with my father so long ago."

The sheep chose this moment to try and eat the laces of Clark's boots. His father spoke as Clark tried to shoo it away: "I would never forget an agreement made to a fellow soldier, my Lord, and Thomas Wayne was the finest man I ever had the honor of serving with. But I assumed--" He broke off, reddening. 

"After my parents' deaths, you assumed the agreement was null and void," said Wayne. "I confess, I had forgotten about it. But the other day I was going through some of his old papers and I found a reference to it. I felt remiss in my filial duties--I must tell you that my father felt strongly that you were the bravest and most honest man he knew, and he wished very much to see our houses joined. And so I have come from London to ask if your son would be willing to honor that agreement and become my spouse." He coughed discreetly. "There would, of course, be a sizeable marriage-price as well. But I hope money is not the only consideration in such an arrangement."

"Clark?" Jonathan looked at his son questioningly, and his eyes were easy to read: _You don't have to do this, son._ But Clark remembered conversations between his parents that he had overheard, worried murmurings late at night about taxes and mortgages. A marriage-price from an Earl…

And then there was the fact that Wayne lived in London. London! Clark had never seen the city, but he yearned to. He was _strong_ \--stronger even than his parents realized--and he was fast, and sometimes he allowed himself to believe that there was more he could do than lift surprised cows out of mudholes. In London…

Wayne was still waiting for his answer, smiling politely. His eyes were a startling pale blue, almost colorless, below brows as sharp as a plunging hawk. It would be a marriage of duty and convenience, of course, and yet… Clark couldn't help but think there would be some pleasure in it too.

And so he found himself an hour later in the local church, preparing to pledge his vows to a man he had only just met. He had changed into his best suit, but still felt coarse next to Wayne's polished good looks. His mother embraced him, smiling tearfully, and his father drew him aside: "Are you sure, Clark? Because you don't have to…"

"Father," said Clark, "He seems to be a good man. It will work out."

"There's more to marriage than being good," muttered his father, but had raised no further protests.

Clark took Wayne's hands--no, _Bruce's_ hands, he was not going to call his husband by his family name!--in his as the pastor read the vows. They were cold, and Clark curled his fingers around them without thinking. Bruce's fingers tightened on his, and Clark found himself staring into eyes like the sky reflected on snow. He stumbled over his vows and had to say them again, and then the pastor was telling them to seal their bond with a kiss. Bruce hesitated and looked for the first time uncertain, as if he had forgotten this would be part of the ceremony. As the moment began to teeter into awkwardness, Clark leaned forward and put his lips to his husbands'.

It was a chaste kiss, and yet as their breath mingled, Clark felt like there were hidden depths behind the gentle touch of their lips. Without thinking, he put a hand on Bruce's shoulder and leaned closer, letting the kiss deepen slightly. In that instant--and for only an instant--the kiss was not at all chaste.

And then Bruce was backing away, smiling politely once more, and his eyes were cool and detached. But Clark felt certain in that moment that there could be more to this marriage than two decent people coming to an arrangement.

* * *

_Fool,_ Kal thought to himself, banishing the memory of that kiss, of that hope, from his mind. _Blind country bumpkin._ Naive, innocent Clark Kent was long gone now, replaced by Kal Starr, glittering member of the London elite. Or so he had thought. But all that was over now too, it seemed.

He forced a smile onto his face as Bruce Wayne bowed deeply to Princess Diana and himself, waiting for the shock, the denunciations, the humiliation.

Instead the shock was his, when Bruce straightened and Kal realized there was not a hint of recognition on his face.

"Why, my Lord Gotham, how unusual to see you in a _salon_ ," said Diana. "Haven't you always claimed that you find such entertainments boring in comparison to the gaming-house and horse-races?"

_Am I truly changed so much?_ Kal wondered as Bruce smiled at Diana. Yes, his manners were polished now, his clothing exquisitely correct, his bearing genteel--he had worked on perfecting all these things during his time at _Il Pianeta,_ after all. Bruce had not seen him for four years, he reminded himself--and he had never truly _looked_ at him, even then. He felt the memory of baffled anger roil in him as he looked at Bruce's dandyish clothing, so different from the elegant garb he had worn to propose to an ignorant country squire's son. _False, false in every way._

"There comes a time, Princess, when one yearns for some witty conversation," drawled Bruce. Kal repressed a start--even his voice was different: light and careless, where the voice Clark remembered (remembered all too well) had been rough and low. "And so I have come here, to see if I can find charms to soothe my jaded soul."

"Alas, my lord," Kal heard himself say, "Sparkling conversation requires two parties to sustain it. Like tennis, one cannot simply lob wit across a net into a void."

The winged eyebrows--they and the eyes were the only things unchanged--went up sharply. "Void?" Bruce said.

"Or perhaps," Kal went on, ignoring the way people were stopping to look at them, the horror in Diana's eyes, "A more apt metaphor would be pistols at dawn with a man whose weapons were unloaded. It would hardly be sporting."

In the shocked silence that followed, Bruce drew his quizzing-glass out from the folds of his ornate cravat and looked at Kal through it, studying him from head to toe without speaking. Behind him Kal could see Steve Lombard gaping at him: _What are you doing?_

Kal hardly knew what he was doing; the memories of four years ago seemed to wash over him, an irresistible memory of humiliation.

* * *

It was a beautiful spring day, and Clark sat beside his husband in his curricle, harnessed to two fine black geldings. Bruce was a good hand with the whip, and the landscape sped past them as the horses picked up their feet.

Bruce had been reticent since the ceremony, refusing to stay the night at the Kent's. "You needn't pack much," he had said as Clark started to put together a case, "You'll have all you need." So Clark had only selected a few sentimental items and had left at once, before the morning was even done.

He tried to draw Bruce out in conversation, but Bruce's thoughts seemed far away and his responses were terse, whether Clark was talking of the weather or asking questions about Bruce's life. "I'm looking forward to seeing London," Clark said at last as the silence became dire. "I've never been. Is it true they have--"

"--We are not going to London," Bruce interrupted him. "Or at least, you are not. You will be staying at my family estate in the Gotham countryside. You should find it very pleasant."

He didn't meet Clark's eyes, and Clark found himself frowning. "And you will be…"

"I plan to stay on in London, yes. I thought--" He cleared his throat. "I thought that you would be more content in the country. I believed this arrangement might suit us well."

"Arrangement? You mean our marriage? I expected I would come to London with you, that I would be a part of your life." Clark wasn't sure if the icy shock of disappointment he felt were due to not going to London or not living with his husband. "Instead I find you mean to exile me to some rotting estate in the middle of nowhere, and--"

Bruce whirled to glare at him. "I agreed to marry you, to fulfill my father's wishes. I agreed to nothing more." He flicked the whip angrily in the air over the horses. "I should think you'd be grateful. You get a marriage-price that will keep your parents comfortable for the rest of their lives, you get a quiet life in the country, you don't have to deal with me--"

"--Maybe I _wanted_ to--to 'deal with you,'" Clark blurted. "I thought we could build a life together. I thought we could be partners. I have a lot I can give, Bruce, I know it."

For a long moment, Bruce stared out across the fields. For the first time, the horses' pace grew restive and uneven, as if his hands had gone unsteady on the reins. 

Then he laughed, and Clark flinched from the bitterness in it.

"Partners?" Bruce's voice was filled with mocking. "Do you have any idea how I'd look in London society with a rustic like you for a spouse? Your manners, your clothing, your very voice--everything about you betrays your lack of breeding. I couldn't possibly be seen in public with you. I've done my duty to my father, and there it ends."

If he had slashed the whip across Clark's face it could not have been more of a shock; Clark felt his breath go short, his vision dim with fury and hurt. "Then I have in my ignorance tied my fate to that of a cruel and petty person," he flared up. "Do feel free to deposit me where you will and I will consider myself well rid of you."

His husband's color was high; Bruce swallowed and his mouth twitched, then firmed again. "You addressed me as 'Bruce' earlier," he said. "I would prefer if you called me by my proper title from now."

"Of course, _my lord_ ," snarled Clark. "I would never dream of presuming an intimacy with you."

The rest of the ride passed in silence, until after agonizing hours they reached a manor tucked into a green valley. If he hadn't been so angry Clark would have called it pretty and well-tended, but his fury choked any words he might have said.

"Farewell," said the Earl of Gotham as a pair of servants come to take his meagre belongings. "And...be safe." 

Clark snatched his bag away from the servants and hopped down from the curricle before they could put any steps in place for him. "Enjoy your life, my Lord," he said, and strode toward the Manor without looking back.

One of the areas in which Clark's abilities were unusual was his extraordinarily sharp hearing. But even he was unsure whether, under the crunch of gravel and the clop of horse's hooves, he was only imagining that the Earl murmured "I am truly sorry," as he rode away.

* * *

Kal--not Clark, Kal!--wrenched his attention back to the man who stood before him. He could tell that his color was high, but Bruce Wayne seemed entirely collected.

"It is not every cicisbeo who would presume to aim such barbs at an Earl," he said.

Everyone was staring at them now, and Kal forced his voice to stay level. "Clearly you are not acquainted with the men and women of _Il Pianeta,_ " he retorted. "Here we judge a person's worth by their intelligence, not by their titles. In our world the measure of a person is not their wealth and their power, but their wit, their bravery, their compassion."

Bruce's icy eyes seemed to sharpen at the last word. "Ah yes," he drawled, waving a languid hand at the opulent surroundings. "I can certainly see how you cherish the lowly of the earth, showing charity to all who hunger and suffer."

Kal sucked in a breath. " _My lord_ is perhaps unaware that most of us come from humble beginnings," he said. "It pleases the nobles who avail themselves of our services to pretend otherwise, but all of us know well what it means to labor for our daily bread. Many of us have extended families, whole communities, which we help to feed and educate. Did you know Lois has started a school for the girls who work in the silk mills? Or that Jimmy spends much of his free time agitating for the reform of debtor's prison? And what has _my lord_ done to help the unfortunates living on the streets of London?"

Bruce opened his mouth, but then Steve Lombard swooped in and cut him off. "I've heard you're a very fine dancer," Steve said. "How delightful it would be if you were to escort me in the cotillion!" He shot a meaningful look at Lois, who hurried to the pianoforte and struck up the opening bars as Bruce allowed himself to be dragged off, casting one thoughtful look back at Kal as he went.

"Really, Kal," Diana whispered as she took his arm and pulled him into an alcove, screened by brocaded curtains, "What possessed you to antagonize the Earl of Gotham?"

"He has a stupid face," Kal said, knowing he sounded sullen and petty. 

"He may not be the brightest light of the _ton,_ but that hardly makes him worthy of your contempt," said Diana. "It is not like you to judge someone so harshly. All of us have our quiet tragedies--the Earl's parents were murdered in front of him when he was but a boy, and now he is married to an invalid--"

"An invalid?" Clark heard the sharp disbelief in his voice, and Diana looked at him, puzzled.

"Why yes, his husband, the poor man, is quite frail and never leaves their house here in London. The Earl often leaves parties quite early to go home and sit with him. Poor dear."

It was too much. Kal felt a completely inappropriate hilarity bubbling up inside him, mirth mingled with fury: he threw back his head and laughed. At the end of a turn of the cotillion, he spotted a glimpse of pale blue eyes flashing at him like a sword, but ignored it. "More likely sneaking off to one of a string of lovers, no doubt! His lordship hardly seems a paragon of marital devotion." Diana gave him a reproving look, and he went on angrily in a lower tone, "He is exactly the kind of social parasite you have always loathed, Diana! Precisely what you and I have been--"

The warning in her eyes stopped him, even as he saw the flash of memory within them: a dank cul-de-sac and a moonless London night years ago.  
London was dirty, was the first thing Clark realized as he stepped down from the coach. The fragrant horse droppings on the street were something he was used to, but the grimy buildings and hazy air surprised him. "Coal smoke, guv'nor," said the coachman at his incredulous look. "Welcome to city life."

Clark pulled his tiny bag from the coach and set out into London to find his husband.

He had put up with the isolation of Wayne Manor for a year: a quiet, peaceful, utterly tedious year. Bruce had never come to call, had not even sent a card. The servants were kind and pleasant, but Clark's attempts to make friends with them had met with a polite reserve--he was, after all, the Earl-Consort now. Clark offered to help with chores, but was met with cordial disbelief and discomfort. Once he heard two stableboys discussing how lonely he seemed, only to be sharply told by the stablemaster that "Pennyworth would not approve of gossip."

The mysterious "Pennyworth" rather haunted the Manor, it seemed--the gardens were mulched with birch bark because "Pennyworth said so," the silver polished each week "on Pennyworth's orders." Yet all his communication seemed to be via letter alone: no avenging Pennyworth ever descended upon the Manor to discipline his employees, and no dark-browed and ice-eyed Earl, either. 

And at last Clark had grown tired of waiting.

No one had questioned his assertion that he was going home to visit his parents--"My lord is no prisoner, of course, and may do as he please," was the murmured response. He supposed it didn't actually matter where he was as far as the Earl was concerned: he had done his duty to his father, after all. So he had set out toward home, his small satchel in hand.

But when he had gotten far enough away, he had switched coaches and headed toward London.

He wasn't sure exactly what was driving him--an inchoate desire to confront his husband, a need to see the metropolis he had longed for. But now that he was here, the idea of striding in and denouncing the Earl of Gotham seemed bizarre. So he wandered the streets of London through the afternoon, gaping at the stores and the crowds, and realized only as it grew dark that he had no place to stay.

Well, it wouldn't be the first time he had slept out in the open. He set off looking for a place to shelter for the night, a quiet dead-end somewhere where he would go unnoticed.

And so he found himself in a dark cul-de-sac, sitting on the cobblestones and wondering if it was wise to spend some of his money on a piece of bread, when he heard a woman's scream pierce the night.

None of the other shadows hunched in the darkness even responded as he jumped to his feet and ran to the sound. There at the end of the cul-de-sac were two women. One was in shabby clothes and worn shoes, crawling on all fours to get away from five men holding blackjacks. The men were ignoring her to focus on the other woman, who stood in the middle of them, and Clark found himself unable to look away from her as well.

She was dressed in scarlet, her skirt long in the back and short in the front, revealing bare muscular legs. On her breast gleamed a golden eagle, and her wrists were covered with heavy embossed bracelets. She stood with her head high and her wrists crossed in front of her--not demurely, but as if ready for a fight, and Clark's heart went out to her immediately.

"We'll take those pretty bracelets, lady," growled one of the men.

"This ain't no _lady_ ," drawled another. "Look at that skirt. She's just a doxy out looking for a roll."

"There is no shame in a woman choosing to have sex where she will," the woman said gravely. Her voice was low and husky, touched with an accent Clark couldn't place. "But neither does my apparel indicate my sexual availability. In any case, I suggest you leave my sister and me alone."

One of the men lunged forward, blackjack raised, and Clark could wait in the shadows no longer. Bolting forward at top speed, he was between the woman and her assailant before the blow could land, and the robber yelped in pain as he struck a shoulder that could lift boulders without flinching.

Clark grabbed him by the collar and hoisted him in the air. "Leave the lady alone," he gritted.

The other men's eyes bugged out and they began to back away. Belatedly, Clark realized that there were only three of them fleeing, and that they were staring not at him but slightly behind him.

He turned to find the woman in red holding the fifth blackguard easily off the ground by his lapels, his feet kicking wildly at the air.

For a moment they both regarded each other with appreciation. Then, as if at a silent signal, each turned and tossed their captive at the other fleeing thugs. All five scrambled to get away, and Clark heard the woman laugh in delight at the expressions on their faces. 

The laugh trailed off as the other woman gasped and scurried away as well. "Um, your sister…?" Clark said.

The woman inclined her head gravely. "I meant the term only in the abstract sense that all women are sisters," she said. "My thanks for your help."

"I couldn't stand by and do nothing," he said.

"Could you not? Yet so many of this city's inhabitants do exactly that." She looked at him. "You are quite strong."

"I'm fast, too."

"How fast?"

He smiled and pointed to the end of the alley. By the time she finished turning to follow his gesture, he was at the mouth of the alley; then back at her side. The breeze of his passing billowed the back of her scarlet skirt.

Her smile was as slow and radiant as the dawn. "I have been looking for one who shared my hopes of making this world a better place. A comrade."

He bowed slightly. "If a man may take the liberty of calling you sister, I would proudly do so."

"So be it, brother."

* * *

Princess Diana had given him a purpose, given him hope when he had none, and asked nothing in return--not his history, not even his full name. It was she who had recommended him at _Il Pianeta._ "A whorehouse?" he had said without thinking, and for the first and only time had found himself on the receiving end of her wrath.

"The people of _Il Pianeta_ sell their company and their conversation," she had informed him, her voice cold. "Anything else they choose is neither an obligation nor a gift--as if sex were a painted present to be awarded to a worthy person, pfah!"

"But I can work in the mills," he said, "Or at the docks--"

"Clark," she had said gently, "I need my partner in this to be someone who can fit in with Society. Someone who can travel openly with me without arousing suspicion. At _Il Pianeta_ you will learn how to gather information from the true villains--the ones who create and perpetuate the systems of poverty and inequity. You will learn how to how to charm and beguile the most powerful. Not all battles are won by throwing people against walls. Only the fun ones," she had added with a smile.

As Kal made his way upstairs, the evening over, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror on the turn of the stairs and remembered her words. He had come to live at _Il Pianeta_ , had put aside Clark Kent and become Kal Starr, the most charming cicisbeo of London: always ready with the _bon mot_ , always leaving his customers feeling smarter and stronger and more confident when they left his company. Clark, with his rough clothes and rougher manners, could never have convinced three members of Parliament to push for stricter child labor laws. Clark could never have collected the information that saved a popular and subversive female playwright from an assassination attempt. Kal Starr had become everything Clark Kent had not been: polished, urbane, stylish and witty.

He had thrown himself into his work, training with Diana in the martial arts on precious mornings, gathering information and influence in the evenings, and now and then patrolling the streets of London, stopping the more sordid and simple crimes. He had put all thoughts of his wayward husband completely out of his mind.

Until tonight.

He closed the door behind him and sat down hard on his bed, remembering the final gleam of pale eyes as Bruce Wayne had left the _salon_ without speaking to him again. Kal would be lucky if Bruce didn't try to have him fired for his impudence. He supposed he should feel grateful that Bruce hadn't recognized him, but instead he felt...empty. He undressed mechanically and slipped between the pure white sheets, sheets none but he had ever laid beneath. From the room next door he heard a woman's low laugh cut off into a gasp of pleasure, and he rolled away from the sound with a sigh.

For the first time in years he had the old dream, the dream he thought he had banished forever: a dream of warm hands that belied mist-cold eyes, of a low voice murmuring things that made him groan with pleasure and arch into a possessive embrace, stammering foolish endearments, confessions, pleas--

He woke disgusted with himself and his traitorous body, which was safer to blame than his treacherous heart. Yet despite that he made sure he looked cool and composed as he went down to the dining room, where various cicisbei and cyprians sat in their dressing gowns and negligee, gossiping about last night's guests and their plans for today. There was a lull in conversation as he entered that made him wince; apparently he was something of a topic for gossip this morning. Well, let them talk.

"Kal!"

He looked up from his breakfast, picked-at but generally uneaten, as Jimmy called his name. "What is it?"

"Perry wants to see you," Jimmy said with a smirk, and Kal felt his heart sink further in foreboding. "And he's got a letter from the Earl of Gotham!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kal deals with the aftermath of his confrontation with the Earl of Gotham, and Bruce deals with some unexpected complications.

A letter from the Earl the morning after last night's debacle! He certainly hadn't wasted any time, thought Kal glumly. Well, better to get it over with quickly. He pushed the rest of his meal over to Steve, even the faint shreds of his appetite gone, and made his way through the corridors to Perry's office, ignoring the states of his co-workers.

"Is there a problem, Chief?"

"Don't call me Chief," Perry growled automatically. He held up a piece of heavy cream paper with a broken seal of black wax thick upon it. "This is from Wayne."

"Yes sir," Kal said blandly.

"You do understand he is a man of considerably more power than we're used to dealing with here?"

"Yes sir."

"This is not an enemy we can afford to make, Starr."

"No sir. I'm sorry, sir."

Perry sighed. "I'm the one who's sorry," he said. He tossed the paper down. "Bruce Wayne, Earl of Gotham, has requested he be your patron. He wishes to dine alone this evening."

_"What?"_

Perry pointed to his right. "There's a chair. Sit," he said, and Kal realized his legs had gone distinctly wobbly. He sat, feeling dazed.

"But--why?"

"He says he found you intriguing and wishes to know you better." Perry shrugged. "Perhaps he has a secret penchant for being humiliated by beautiful men."

"Oh God," said Kal.

Perry gave him a keen look. "You can turn him down," he said. 

"But you said--"

"--We've made enemies before. We'll cope with it."

"But he could be an invaluable resource," Kal said. "He knows so many people. He probably is privy to reams of information without even realizing it."

"I won't force you to be bound to a man you can't stand."

_I'm already more bound to him than you can imagine._ Aloud, Kal said "I can handle him."

"You're sure?"

"I can handle him," Kal said more firmly.

Perry looked dubious, but finally nodded. "He informs us that he requires a private room for dinner with you at seven o'clock sharp. I guess you'd best get ready."

_He's a valuable resource,_ Kal reminded himself as he left Perry's office and headed upstairs once more to stare blankly at his wardrobe for an hour. _I'm doing this to help the people of London. That's all._

* * *

He changed outfits five times before the evening came, finally settling on a simple dark-gray coat with a red silk ascot and a dark blue waistcoat, the one concession to flash the lace at the cuffs--lace was old-fashioned, he knew, but he always loved the way it framed gestures.

And then he went to the private dining room to await the arrival of his husband and new patron.

* * *

"My Lord is in a hurry," Alfred murmured as he finished tying Bruce's cravat into the complex knot that only he could manage. All the other young Corinthians of London yearned to copy it, but the skill belonged to Alfred alone.

"The sooner I can get to the _salon_ and finish dinner, the sooner I can make my excuses and slip away," Bruce said. "I really think this deal with _Il Pianeta_ might work out," he added. Keeping all of his different excuses and alibis straight was starting to become difficult--when he was in polite society, he would use his "poor dear invalid husband" as a reason to leave early. When he was engaged in activities of the more...unsavory type, whether gaming, boxing, or tippling, he let people think he was slipping away to visit a lover--after all, no one thought flighty Bruce Wayne would actually be devoted to an ill husband. It had worked well so far--if his respectable friends suspected he had a lover, and if his dissolute friends suspected he actually cared about his husband, well then, each of them could believe they had uncovered Bruce Wayne's secret.

Let people discover one secret about you, Bruce had discovered, and they tended to stop looking for anything deeper.

"Forgive my impertinence," said Alfred, poker-faced as Bruce shot him a look that said _Have I any choice?_ , "But I am curious why you chose to associate with that particular cicisbeo. Based on your account of last night, I would think you would prefer to spend your time with someone more...pliant."

Bruce busied himself with his various foppish gewgaws: the ornate snuff box, the ridiculous quizzing glass, the jeweled watch fob. After a moment he said, "I have my reasons, Alfred."

Alfred nodded and said no more, which somehow did not improve Bruce's mood. _But what the devil those reasons are, I have no idea!_ he fumed to himself. He had gone looking for someone shallow and mercenary, regardless of sex: someone who he could trust to keep silent about trysts skipped and sordid evenings abandoned early because he paid enough. Another source of alibi, another way to hide his true nocturnal activities. Kal Starr did not seem in the least shallow, nor the slightest mercenary. And certainly not at all "pliant," he thought sourly, glaring at himself in the mirror. No, instead he was sharp and stinging, dismissive and downright rude. 

He was also impossibly lovely, but surely that was not reason enough to choose such a patently unsuitable cicisbeo. Bruce Wayne, Earl of Gotham and secret vigilante of London, was not one to have his head turned by a pair of brilliant blue eyes and a sweetly curved upper lip. No, nor by hair that gleamed like satin, nor nimble and expressive hands, and not even by the most well-shaped legs of the _ton._

Bruce Wayne frowned as he dabbed the latest, most offensively aggressive cologne on his wrists. Well, after tonight he would arrange to meet with a different courtesan or cicisbeo, and have no further dealings with Kal Starr's caustic tongue and insulting airs.

That would be a good thing.

* * *

Kal was already in their dining room when he arrived, sitting in an embroidered chair in front of the fire. He rose when Bruce came in, bowing deeply, but for a second Bruce thought he had seen a flash of wariness in his eyes. It made him look younger, and oddly familiar. But by the time he rose from his bow, his gaze was opaque once more. "My lord," he murmured.

"Forgive me," Bruce said without preamble. "We got off to a bad start last night, and I wished to make it up to you."

"There is nothing to forgive," Kal said. "I am but a humble cicisbeo, and it is not my place to question those such as my Lord."

He was technically correct, of course, but Bruce felt fresh annoyance prick him at his servile tone. "Oh, cease with the flattery," he snapped. "I am aware that you despise me." _The Earl of Gotham was created to be despised, after all._

"I don't despise you," Kal said, dropping his eyes to the table laden with fruit, meat, and wine. Deftly, he poured a glass of sherry and handed it to Bruce. "I am merely curious about you."

"Of course," said Bruce, "It is your job to be solicitous and curious, witty but never prying, as careful with your conversation as with your excellent sherry." He saluted Kal with the glass and took a sip.

"If so," said Kal, "I failed rather spectacularly at my job last night, did I not?" His color was high once more. It suited him.

"Well, now is your chance to redeem yourself." Bruce gestured to the table. "Please be seated, and let us try to have an urbane and civil conversation."

Kal's lips were tight, but he sat down. "And how was my lord's day?"

Bruce helped himself to a bunch of grapes. "My day was boring," he said. The absolute truth: his regimen of physical training took four hours, followed by the study of French and German for three. Tedious at times, but necessary. "I spent much of it thinking of you." Also, somewhat annoyingly, the truth.

Kal's expression was more nettled than flattered for a moment; then it smoothed into more neutral lines. "I was similarly plagued by thoughts of you, my Lord."

A bark of laughter escaped Bruce. "A pretty verb to choose! And what did you think of? My noble brow? My stern yet passionate mouth?" He rolled a grape between his fingers before popping it between his lips.

"I choose not to answer that question, on the grounds that we are attempting to have a civil conversation," Kal said.

Bruce managed not to choke on his grape with an effort. This impudent--! "So let us leave me behind entirely as a topic of conversation. I wish to know more about you."

"Me, my Lord?" For some reason, Kal looked more nonplussed than Bruce had seen him yet.

"Yes, you. How does one as lovely and accomplished as yourself spend his days? I am aware of how you spend your nights."

Kal flushed once more. "I often escort the Princess Diana around town--to symposiums or to picnics."

"How charming. As you said last night, many of the employees of _Il Pianeta_ engage in--shall we say--philanthropic activities as well. Miss Lane with her schools, Mister Olsen with his debtor's prisons." He smiled. "From the conversation I had with him, I assume that Mister Lombard, as divine a dancer as he may be, does not see fit to engage in public works."

"And there you would be wrong yet again," Kal retorted. "Steve is quite active in the Anti-Slavery Society and has been working diligently to get the Slavery Abolition Act passed." He nearly smiled at Bruce's expression. "Even those without the most sparkling of wit can see that slavery is a great injustice, my Lord. You must cease underestimating us."

"Indeed, I begin to suspect I must." Bruce took another sip of sherry. "And you? What is the cause for which you nobly fight?"

"My lord mocks me," said Kal with an ironic bow. 

"Struth, I do not."

"Be that as it may, I spend some of my time at the local Foundling Hospital. The children there are often in need of diversion, and I sing them songs and make puppet shows for them. Being a foundling myself, I--"

Kal broke off, looking vexed, and stood to pick up a poker and arrange the logs in the fire.

"You were a foundling?" Bruce said. "Did you grow up in such a place?"

"I...was luckier than they," Kal said, looking intently at the fire. "I was taken in by kindly folk, who raised me as their own. Unlike so many in this world, I have never known poverty and deprivation."

"Your empathy does you credit," murmured Bruce. "Tell me about them."

"About--about the foundlings?" Kal's mouth quirked in something close to a smile. "My lord, that is hardly appropriate dinner conversation between an Earl and his chosen consort."

"I am nothing if not inappropriate," Bruce replied. He smiled into his sherry. "Indulge my fanciful whim."

Kal sat down once more and, after some hesitation, began to talk about the children at the hospital. His voice warmed as he talked about Conner and Chris, Karen and Kara: their laughter when they saw him, their small illnesses and interests, the various tragedies which had brought them all to their lonely fate. "I wish I could take them all away from the smoke and grime of the city--children should be able to climb trees and chase butterflies and catch frogs," he said, his eyes faraway.

"You did not grow up in London," Bruce said, and Kal's eyes snapped back to his, the annoyed look on his face again.

"I did not. I was fortunate enough to grow up with space to run and play."

"If you had such a happy life in the country, what brought you here, to this life?"

Kal's face had gone closed-off, remote. It gave him an austere beauty where before he had been vivid and engaging. "I prefer not to discuss it, my lord."

"Very well," Bruce said easily, although he found himself suddenly very curious indeed. "We all have our secrets." 

The clock on the mantel chimed, and Bruce bit back an exclamation as he pulled out his watch. Eleven o'clock already? He had meant to stay just long enough to establish a routine, then slip out early by the discreet back exit without being noticed. "I must be going, I fear," he said, standing.

"I am sure my lord has other...companions that demand your time," murmured Kal as he rose as well..

"None as charming or handsome as you," Bruce said, and was surprised to see Kal look away, color high in his cheeks again. On a sudden whim, he took Kal's chin in his hand. "I would see you smile again before we part," he said. 

His fingers were resting against the pulse of Kal's neck; he felt it fluttering beneath his touch. "I see no reason to smile at parting from you, my lord," said Kal.

"Pfah," said Bruce. "A pat phrase with no emotion behind it--you are better than this, my Kal."

Kal drew back, his eyes cold. "I am not _yours_ , my lord. You have purchased my time and my company, not my body--nor my soul."

For a long moment they stared at each other, the fire crackling low in the fireplace, and Bruce felt his mouth go strangely dry at the brilliance in Kal's eyes. "I admit defeat," he said at last, bowing slightly. "But I shall return."

As he let himself out into the foggy streets of London, he realized he was already planning on coming back tomorrow night.

* * *

He returned the next night, and the next, and the next: never staying as late again as he had that first night, never touching Kal again. They talked about the opera, about politics, about sport--it turned out Bruce was a surprisingly perceptive observer of London social life, and his canny imitations of various people made Kal choke with unexpected laughter ("There's that smile," Bruce had murmured the first time). He regaled Kal with tales from his travels in Europe when he was a younger man, shared hints on fashion, and played cribbage and chess with cutthroat intensity. "I hate to lose," he had grumbled after Kal checkmated him in the first game.

"You must resign yourself to it, my lord," Kal had laughed.

He would excuse himself early and slip out with the hood of his cloak pulled up as if he didn't want to be seen leaving: off to visit another gambling parlor, Kal supposed, or perhaps one of his lovers. Not that he--Kal--cared at all what he did with his time.

And then one night he did not come.

Kal spent the evening with Diana, trying to make witty conversation. From the looks she was giving him, he suspected he was failing utterly.

"You are watching the door more than you are watching me," she said eventually, a half-smile on her face.

He bowed deeply. "A thousand apologies, princess."

"No matter," she said. "Perhaps it is for the best." She leaned closer to him, whispering in his ear. "I have a lead on that child pickpocket gang."

Kal brightened dramatically: at last! They'd been gathering information about the gang that preyed on homeless children, recruiting them into the ranks of thieves and pickpockets, for months. 

"I spoke with one of the poor souls, a young girl," said Diana. "A pretty child with golden hair named Stephanie. She told me that no one knew the name of the boss of the gang, but that the children all called him the Duck, for he was short and waddled, and had a big nose." She smiled at Kal. "Does that sound familiar?"

Kal grinned at her, remembering how Oswald Cobblepot had been banned from _Il Pianeta_ for rude and impertinent behavior, how he had squawked his disapproval. "It does indeed, princess."

"I say perhaps we should pay Mr. Cobblepot a visit this evening, don't you?"

* * *

They trailed Oswald Cobblepot from his preferred gaming-hell through the streets of London to his home, but found nothing overtly suspicious about his behavior. "I could get him to confess in a moment," Diana whispered fiercely, smacking one fist into her hand, but Kal put a hand on her elbow.

"But we don't know where he's keeping the children," he whispered warningly, for Stephanie had run off and disappeared into the fog as if terrified at her own daring after talking to Diana. "His henchmen could just move them." He looked up at Cobblepot's apartment, shrouded in shadow. "If only we could risk breaking into his place--wait, what's that?"

"What's what?" Diana peered up into the night.

"I thought I saw someone slipping out his window." Kal ran down the alley, looking up at the buildings, but the mysterious figure was already gone. "Damn this fog!"

"Kal," said Diana's voice behind him. "We have a problem."

He looked down to realize they were surrounded by a ring of silent figures, masked and hooded--and tiny. Children. Knives glinted in the dim moonlight.

"We don't want to hurt you," said Diana. "And you cannot hurt us. Please--we're trying to help you--"

One of the children lunged forward, and she caught his wrist, sending the knife clattering to the ground. 

"This is no life for children!" she said, letting go of him. "Please, you must trust us. Do not let evil command your destiny."

Kal noticed that several of the children were hesitating, hanging back slightly. But not all of them. "Time to go before they get themselves hurt," he said to Diana. With two leaps they were outside the circle and running down the road.

"What kind of monster preys on children like that?" Diana demanded angrily as they ran. "We must stop him!"

"I couldn't agree more," Kal said. "Soon, princess."

* * *

A knock on Kal's door. "Lord Wayne is here and asking--once again--for you," said Steve.

Kal cursed the way his spirits rose. He checked himself in the mirror: everything was in place. By the time he reached their private room, his demeanor was composed as well.

"A pleasure to see you again, my lord," he said, bowing.

Bruce bowed as well, then hissed slightly under his breath. "I missed your companionship last night," he said, sitting down. 

He moved gingerly, and Kal felt his eyes narrow, but he kept his voice cool. "Oh, I doubt that, my lord. After all, I am far from your only companion."

"No, you are merely the one I enjoy the most," retorted Bruce. His face was pale, and he took a gulp of cognac with a shaking hand. "Damn it," he muttered. "Alfred was right, as always. I should have stayed home. But--" He broke off, said slightly more loudly, "But I did want to see you."

"You are ill, my lord."

"I am not ill," Bruce snapped. 

"Indeed you are not," Kal exclaimed as he saw scarlet seeping into the white cloth of his shirt. "You are injured!"

Without thinking, he knelt to undo Bruce's jacket. Bruce pushed him away, but Kal snarled wordlessly at him. 

"I must get you medical attention," he said, but Bruce shook his head.

"I won't see some butcher. I'm fine, damn you!" He tried to pull his jacket closed again. "Not here, someone might see--"

"Come to my room then," Kal said impatiently. "No one shall interrupt us there, and I can tend your wound, you impossible, stubborn, bacon-brained goose."

Bruce started to laugh, then caught his breath. "Very well," he said, paling further. "If it will convince you to stop plaguing me."

Kal hustled him to his room and sat him down in the armchair. "Don't move. I'll fetch hot water." 

By the time he returned, Bruce was slumped in his seat, but he raised his head as Kal came in and smiled. "If it isn't my angel of mercy," he murmured.

"Shut up," Kal retorted. 

"My brusque, impertinent angel of mercy."

Kal ignored him as he untied Bruce's cravat, pulled aside his shirt, and undid the bloody bandage, frowning at the gash in his shoulder: nothing life-threatening if cared for, but it looked painful. "What the devil did you get into?"

"I'm afraid I offended the wrong person," Bruce gritted as Kal dabbed at the wound with a wet cloth.

"You should stick to offending cicisbei and cyprians; we are less likely to stick knives in you," Kal said. He wound a fresh linen bandage around the wound, tying it off neatly. "Take off your shirt and I shall wash the stains out of it, so as not to ruin your immaculate image."

Bruce slipped out of his jacket, waistcoat, and shirt, and Kal took it and dipped it in a ewer of cold water, scrubbing at the stains. "You're very efficient. And not at all squeamish," Bruce said.

"This is nothing compared to--" Kal clamped his mouth shut on the "--butchering-time on the farm," he had been about to say and went back to scrubbing grimly. "That should do it," he said instead, and hung the dripping garment above the fireplace to dry. He poured a shot of whisky from his private store and handed it to Bruce. "Drink."

Bruce looked like he was going to argue, then shrugged and downed the alcohol. "That's good," he said appreciatively, and smiled up at Kal, who was abruptly acutely aware that the man in his chair was bare to the waist. The firelight played across surprisingly well-carved muscles, caressing skin criss-crossed with white traceries of scars, and Kal looked away quickly and went to fold his waistcoat.

"This is quite lovely," he said, picking up a locket that had been tucked away in a breast pocket. "And what picture does it hide, that you keep it so close to your heart?" He aimed a roguish smile at Bruce, but was startled to find that Bruce's eyes were solemn and level. "A secret lover, perhaps? Maybe more than one?"

Unable to resist, he flipped it open, then frowned at the image within: a miniature painting of a man and woman dressed in a style from decades ago, a small boy with pale blue eyes between them. "Are these your parents?" _What kind of dissolute rake keeps a portrait of their dead parents next to their heart?_ "Is this...you?"

Bruce held out his hand, and Kal dropped the locket into it. "It was a long time ago," he said, gazing at it for a moment before snapping it shut and placing it on the side table.

Kal poured another shot of whisky and offered it to Bruce. "I don't--" Bruce hesitated. "I don't usually drink that much." He sighed when Kal made a scoffing noise. "I suppose you have no reason to believe me," he murmured.

"Your shoulder will be hurting you quite a bit. This will dull the pain."

After a moment, Bruce shrugged and took the glass, downing the alcohol with a slight grimace. "Thank you," he muttered.

Silence fell in the room for a while. Bruce was gazing into the flames, his chin propped in his hand, his eyes half-closed. He looked relaxed in a way Kal had never seen, and in that vulnerability Kal could suddenly see a bone-deep exhaustion. 

Discomfited, he stood to pick up the whisky bottle, and Bruce made a bleary gesture. "I shouldn't have any more," he said. "Or I'll start telling you how beautiful you are."

"How terrible," Kal said drily. "We must avoid such a horrific outcome." Bruce chuckled, looking at him with his chin still propped in his hand, as Kal put the bottle back in his cabinet. His cheeks were somewhat flushed, a stark contrast to his usual pale, icy hauteur, and without thinking Kal put a hand to his forehead.

"I'm not fevered," Bruce said. He reached up and took Kal's hand in his, bringing it down to rest on his bare chest. "But you are kind to worry about me. I have never given you any reason to."

He hadn't released Kal's hand; Kal could feel warm skin beneath his touch and fought a sudden urge to splay his fingers wide, to encompass as much of that chest as possible. "Of course I worry about you, my lord. You are my patron, after all. You pay well for the privilege of me worrying about you."

He expected a witty retort, but Bruce just gazed up at him. "You can call me 'Bruce,' you know," he said suddenly. "I...would like that."

The words were like a slap across the face: against his will, Kal suddenly heard his husband's voice from his memory, harsh and cold: _I would prefer you call me by my proper title--A rustic like you--everything about you betrays your lack of breeding--I could never be seen in public with you--_

His hand clenched into a fist and he pulled away from Bruce's touch. He glared down at the man in the chair before him, and Bruce's gaze went wary and hurt at the abrupt motion. Anger warred with pity in Kal's breast--and with other emotions he dared not label--and he suddenly found himself with his hands planted on Bruce's thighs, leaning over him. 

"And what else would _my lord_ like?" he snarled into Bruce's startled face. "Would he like this?" 

Without letting himself think about it further, he brought his mouth to Bruce's.

It was nothing like their first, hesitant kiss in the chapel four years ago: it was fierce and bruising, and Bruce threw himself into it as if hurling himself off a ledge. Kal felt hands clutching at his shoulders and he lost his balance, collapsing onto Bruce's bare chest without breaking the kiss, skin and scars hot beneath his roving hands. He could feel Bruce's hardness pressing through the layers of cloth between them, and the sensation woke a desperate triumph in him, and an even more desperate hunger. He let his hands slip beneath the waistband of those exquisitely, tauntingly tight breeches, and--

With something close to a gasp, Bruce grabbed his hands and stopped them in their descent. He struggled to his feet, and Kal could see fresh blood seeping through the bandage on his shoulder. "I should be going," he said.

Pride and lust drove Kal to his feet. "I have no other guests this evening," he said, drawing close to Bruce. "You may stay."

Bruce's eyes flicked to Kal's crotch, where his straining buckskins left no doubt as to his own interest. Then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "This was not part of our contract," he said, his voice thick, and grabbed his still-damp shirt from the hook.

"Perhaps I would like to re-negotiate," Kal said, letting his hand trail from Bruce's navel downward, skimming across the tempting bulge with just the most fleeting of caresses.

"I must go," said Bruce, yanking his shirt over his head, grabbing his jacket. He threw his ascot around his neck without even bothering to tie it, leaving him looking thoroughly rumpled and debauched, with his hair askew and his cheeks aflame. Seizing his cloak, he nearly bolted from the room, pausing only to look back and say "Farewell" before the door closed behind him.

The briefest of pauses, and yet the yearning and hunger in his eyes was so plain that Kal felt elation thrill through him. He would be back.

And Kal would no longer be the one cozened and abandoned, left powerless and alone.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kal continues his campaign to seduce Bruce Wayne. Meanwhile both of them--unbeknownst to each other--try to unravel the whereabouts of Cobblepot's thieving ring and save the children involved.

" _Don't_ say I told you so," snapped Bruce as Alfred examined his wounded shoulder.

"I would not dream of it, sir. What kind of faithful servant would I be if I pointed out that most people would stay in and rest after being stabbed by Oswald Cobblepot's bodyguard, rather than going off to visit their lover? Such rank ingratitude would be beneath me."

"He's _not_ my lover." Bruce tried to meet Alfred's look squarely. "He is my alibi."

"You seem to be making a practice of collecting alibis," said Alfred. "Like that poor Kent boy."

"We agreed that Kent is not a topic for discussion," Bruce growled. "He is not languishing waiting for me, he has gone back to his--now wealthier--parents, he is not 'poor' in either sense of the word, and he is _not a topic for discussion._ "

"I would rather you collect friends than alibis," Alfred called after him, but he ignored him.

This thing with Kal had to end, Bruce thought as he sat down to pore over maps of London once more. He was a distraction, and he was altogether too smart. He wasn't even that good an alibi, for Bruce often found himself lingering at _Il Pianeta_ longer than he should: valuable minutes that could be spent trying to halt this damned thieves' ring. 

And then there was tonight.

Unbidden, Bruce remembered the feel of Kal's mouth on his, the surge of response within his own body. Perhaps the most damnable thing about it all was that it wasn't even Kal's beauty that had finally kindled the smoldering spark of desire into this unruly flame. No, it had been the steadiness of his hands when he bandaged Bruce's bloody shoulder, the calm in his voice. Bruce's body had responded not to Kal's kiss, but to his spirit. Beautiful and brave, intelligent and compassionate, with a passion for justice that illuminated his brilliant eyes--

Bruce slammed his hand on the table with an oath. _No._ This was exactly what he had sworn to avoid, all those years ago. The very wound in his shoulder was proof that this was not a life to share with anyone--he would have drugged Alfred and dragged him back to the Manor long ago, except that he was fairly certain Alfred would just show up the next day, unflappable as always. But Kal he could keep safe, merely by avoiding him. He would simply not return to _Il Pianeta_ at all, never see Kal again.

Nodding firmly, he returned to his sewer maps.

And even if he _were_ to return to the _salon_ , he would be sure to frequent a different person there--perhaps a cyprian this time, to confound and confuse the gossips. Catherine Grant, for example, was a lovely woman, though her golden hair was a touch garish compared to Kal's dark waves. She had a beautiful singing voice, which was always a plus--probably sweeter than Kal's, although Bruce had never heard him sing. He had heard him talk about those orphaned children, had heard him laugh, had heard him snarl _my lord_ as though it were an insult--

He broke off the thought with another muffled curse. He would stay away from _Il Pianeta_ entirely. It was the only way.

* * *

He lasted three days.

* * *

Kal heard Bruce's inane laughter as he came down the stairs--had his laugh always been that stupid? It hadn't seemed it in the quiet of their private room--and suppressed a smile. Bruce was talking with Cat Grant about the opera and pointedly not watching the staircase,. Kal waited until his gaze flicked almost-involuntarily to the stairs, then continued his descent as if he were just entering. He let his gaze lock with Bruce's for a fleeting moment and a quick smile, then walked past him to join in a conversation between Lois, Steve, and Harvey Dent, who had had a fair amount to drink and was clearly on the verge of mentioning some useful information about the upcoming vote on the Abolition Act. Kal joined in for a while, until he heard a minuet begin on the pianoforte. Then he excused himself and went to Bruce's side.

"We have never danced," he murmured. "Steve says you are very good."

Cat looked amused. "Since he's been sneaking glances at you all evening, you are welcome to him," she said to Kal, snapping open her fan to hide her smile at Bruce's look of betrayed annoyance.

"Very well. I'll lead," Bruce said, taking his arm.

"Of course you will, my lord."

Kal was not as good a dancer as Lombard, but he didn't need to be very good for his purposes. It was enough to let his thigh brush against Bruce's, enough to let his hand linger on his partner's shoulder, slide down his arm caressingly. "I'm surprised to meet you down here instead of in private," he murmured.

"Perhaps I didn't come here to meet you," Bruce said.

Kal let his laughing look speak for him. "I have a bottle of wine in my room," he said. "Come up and share it with me, and we can pick up where we left off last time."

He watched Bruce's Adam's apple bob once, then twice as he swallowed. "I think I prefer to stay here," Bruce said.

Kal arched an eyebrow. "Oh," he breathed, "How naughty." He leaned very close to Bruce's ear, letting the music cover his voice. "We don't usually do such things in the main hall, but it's not unprecedented--some people like an audience, after all. Would you like to rut right here on the dance floor, make me spend myself while begging _more, bugger me harder, my lord?_ Or perhaps put me on my knees to suckle your member?" He smiled. "Yes indeed, that member which I can feel hardening at my words. Or perhaps--" He met Bruce's eyes, "--perhaps you would prefer to be the one on your knees, pleasuring me in front of all the world?"

Bruce missed a step and they almost tripped over each other, halting in the middle of the dance floor, each glaring daggers at the other. "My thanks for the dance," Bruce said, stepping away. "You are quite skilled. But alas, I must be going."

He turned sharply on one shining Hessian boot and hastened for the door. 

"I hope you know what you're doing." Kal turned to see Lois Lane standing behind him, looking worried. 

"I know exactly what I'm doing," Kal said. Bruce wanted him, it was obvious in every muscle of his body and every glance of his eye. He had to give in soon. He'd be begging for Kal's affections any day now, writhing in agonized need for Kal's hands on his body, Kal's mouth against his skin. He'd admit Kal was all he wanted in the world. And then Kal would--

At that point his fevered fantasies seemed to split in twain: during the day, the Kal in his mind laughed and spurned Bruce. But at night, as he lay half-asleep, the visions went another way altogether, leaving him twisting against the sheets as he imagined Bruce's fingers digging into his ass, Bruce's lean muscled torso covered with love bites, his face rapt and sheened with sweat as he--

Lois put a hand on his shoulder. "I ask only because you look desperately unhappy, my friend," she murmured.

Kal couldn't even find the heart to shake her hand off. He felt suddenly weary and lost. "I believe I shall retire for the evening," he said, and Lois nodded and squeezed his shoulder. 

_I'll feel better in the morning,_ he told himself as he climbed the long stair. _I'll find new resolve with the dawn._

But the long evening and his empty room stretched ahead of him until then.

* * *

Bruce threw himself into smashing the Cobblepot ring with renewed vigor, working late into the night, training until Alfred found him collapsed on the floor, exhausted, and had to help him to bed. At least that way he didn't lie in bed and think about Kal's body, his voice, his gentle strong hands. 

He realized Alfred was watching him mechanically eat a piece of bread. "What is it," he mumbled.

"Perhaps you should pay that Starr lad a visit," Alfred said.

Bruce felt a humorless bark of laughter scrape his throat. "I thought you wanted me not to see him."

"I said you needed friends, not alibis." Alfred gave him a narrow look. "One does not usually work themselves nearly to death to forget an alibi."

Bruce heaved himself to his feet. "I'm going to search that new bolthole of Cobblepot's I've found."

"I would advise against it, sir."

"What?" Bruce glared blearily at him. 

"It is one in the afternoon, sir."

"Oh." Bruce blinked slowly. "Then I have time to train some more before evening," he said, picking up one of the fine, strong ropes he'd been practicing with. He hadn't quite gotten the hang of swinging between rooftops, but he was almost there.

Alfred watched him as he threw the rope over a rafter and practiced releasing it in time to catch the next one. "Please keep the option open, sir," he sighed.

* * *

"You're trying to stop him," said a young voice behind him, and Bruce jolted away from Cobblepot's desk, his heart lurching. _Sloppy, Bruce, sloppy!_

Standing in the doorway was a boy of about twelve, his arms crossed, dark hair falling in his eyes. "You're trying to stop him," the boy repeated.

"What if I am?" Not the most glib of retorts, Bruce thought, sizing up his opponent. He could probably reach him before the boy could raise an alarm, knock him out. But how to keep him from telling Cobblepot that--

"Then you might like to know that he's planning on moving us all to Liverpool soon." The boy's face was pale, his eyes a determined blue. "Start a new thieves guild there--or maybe branch out into...new activities." His mouth set. "Leastways cicisbei and cyprians get a choice, you know? I told the others that I'd get us out of it, but time's running out." He bared his teeth at Bruce. "Your mates--the woman and the other man--they spooked him."

"Mates?" Bruce shook his head, trying to clear it. He was so tired. "I don't have any mates."

"Sure you do," scowled the boy. "And I'm just telling you that you'd better hurry. Or there won't be any of us left to help."

He stepped backwards into the shadows and was gone before Bruce could stop him, and Bruce decided against giving chase. Catching sight of a paper with an address and a time--a week from now--he made a mental note of it, then beat his own retreat. 

He almost slipped a couple of times on the slate-tiled roofs, but his makeshift grapple seemed to be working. At least he didn't smash his head on the cobblestones, as Alfred had direly predicted. The city seemed to whirl around him in his exhaustion, and the fog seemed more a product of his mind than the weather. The boy had spoken of mates--but he had no one to work with him, no one he could trust to help set things right. He couldn't live with himself if someone else got hurt because of his crazed crusade. Let the only broken body on the cobblestones be himself, the way it should have been that night so long ago--

He realized blearily that the door in front of him was not his apartments, but _Il Pianeta_ 's ornate gate. Startled, he barely had time to yank off his black silk mask before the door opened to reveal a puzzled-looking Jimmy Olsen in a brocaded corset and silken petticoats. 

"I'm here to see Kal," Bruce muttered, hearing his voice as if it were a stranger's. 

Jimmy raised an eyebrow, then curtseyed slightly. "Come this way, my lord," he said.

The room they usually met in was empty. "Kal wasn't expecting you tonight," said Jimmy. "I'll tell him you're here." The door closed behind him and Bruce found himself blinking wearily at the crackling fireplace, the velvety _chaise longue_. He lay down and felt his eyes drifting shut despite himself. He could just rest his eyes for a moment. He was safe here.

He drifted up from unconsciousness some indeterminate time later with a comforting weight across his body, twined around him. There was a scent of musk and cloves, and the sound of low, slow breathing.

Kal was in his arms, and asleep. 

He froze at the realization, then opened his eyes carefully. Kal was pillowed on his chest, one hand flung onto the pillow, almost touching Bruce's face, the other trailing almost on the floor. Bruce gradually maneuvered himself until he could see Kal's face, relaxed in sleep, his mouth a little open. He looked entirely different than the grand, austere beauty who had taunted him on the dance floor--at the memory of those taunts Bruce's lust stirred, and he tried to take a deep, steadying breath without waking Kal. He wanted to throw him down on the _chaise_ and make love to him--he wanted to simply rest here for hours, breathing in his scent and feeling his weight across him. He was beautiful--so kind and passionate, wicked and wise--and Bruce could never have him.

Kal stirred, and Bruce realized that he had made a small, broken sound unawares. Kal tilted his face up and his long lashes parted to reveal eyes sleepy and gentle, still-unguarded. "I was dreaming of you," he murmured, and Bruce found himself kissing him, a long tender kiss of those sweetly curved lips. 

For a timeless, sensuous moment Kal simply melted into the kiss, exploring Bruce's lips with a strangely innocent relish, and it was all the peace and comfort Bruce had ever yearned for in his life.

He could _feel_ the moment when Kal became fully aware of his surroundings, realized what was going on. With a growl, Kal ground his hips against Bruce's, drawing his hands down to the curves of his ass. The kiss turned fierce and predatory and demanding, and Bruce's body responded helplessly. _God,_ how he wanted to--

His hands were on the waistline of Kal's breeches, ready to yank them down, when he forced himself to let go. "Stop it," he muttered against Kal's lips, then more loudly, pulling away: _"Stop it."_

He had half-expected Kal to ignore him and press onward, and he felt a strange pang of disappointment when Kal immediately stood and took a step back from the _chaise_. "I am in your employ," Kal said, his voice cold, "And will do as you command." A small, wry smile. "Not to mention those of our profession know all too well to cherish consent."

Bruce found himself unable to speak, clinging to the chair as a drowning man clings to a spar, staring up at Kal.

They looked at each other for a long time, and Kal's expression shifted from icy to something more complex, more vulnerable. "Yet you do want me!" he burst out at last. "I can tell you do. I don't understand--I don't understand why--"

"It's my husband," Bruce said heavily, and Kal's face went still and wary for a moment. Then he laughed, a trifle wildly.

"Ah, your invalid husband--I had nearly forgotten him! You expect me to believe that your love for him is so pure that--"

"--It's not love," said Bruce. "It's guilt."

The room was silent for a moment. Bruce looked into the fire for a time before he went on.

"I am married," he said. "But my husband is no invalid. He is not even here in London." He cleared his throat, unable to look at Kal. "I married him some time ago, through an arrangement set up by our fathers. He was a good man--unsophisticated, but with a good heart, I could tell. And…" He gritted his teeth, forced himself to continue, "...and I used him and abandoned him shamefully. For various reasons, I needed the security of a marriage, the...the armor of the world knowing I was already legally bound to another. But at the same time, I...had no intention of living a life of safety and comfort. You saw," he said, gesturing vaguely at his shoulder. "I frequent dangerous places, I make...dangerous enemies. It is one of the reasons I have tried to not become...attached to you. If you could have seen him, Kal, as I did--his open, honest, face, the sheep nibbling on his shoelaces--I could never have forgiven myself if harm had come to him. And so I abandoned him on my estate in Gotham with a monthly allowance. He has gone back to his parents. I shall not see him again."

He stood and poured himself a glass of sherry to ease his dry throat. Kal stood as if turned to stone, and Bruce dared not look at him. There was a strange, painful pleasure to confessing all this, a scab ripped off and exposed to light. He forged ahead:

"I do not love my husband. I never gave myself the chance to know him enough to love him. But I treated him callously. I know that you think that I am an incorrigible scoundrel and cad with no morals whatsoever, and I am all those things and more, but I swore--" He broke off, shook his head in disgust. "I swore that at the very least, I would never be unfaithful the man who married me." He put the glass down on the table with a thump. "And you have no reason to believe me, but I never have been. It has never been truly difficult. Until now."

Silence. And then Kal started laughing. 

It started as a low giggle, but quickly spiraled into peals of wild laughter, hard and humorless as steel. "You're saying," he choked between gasps for air, "You're saying your fidelity to your husband is the reason you must refuse me?" His laughter seemed almost to be causing him pain. "Why, that's the most amazing jest! Truly, I have never heard such a mirthful tale in all my life!"

"Kal--" Bruce took a step forward, but Kal recoiled from him.

"And did it never cross your mind in all these years, _my lord_ \--" He spat the title like a curse, "--to find your husband and explain this to him? What cruelty, to be willing to marry another and not willing to give up your selfish ways: gambling and racing and duelling, selling your life cheap for a bit of excitement, you worthless parasite! How _dare_ you make such decisions unilaterally for another human being, you condescending coxcomb?" He was shaking with rage, but his voice was level. "And now you think that by confessing your chastity to me, as if it were a shameful secret, I will find you terribly noble. I find you nothing of the sort." He pointed to the door. "Our contract is terminated, my lord. I do not wish to see your face here again."

Bruce struggled to find his voice for a moment. The reasons Kal ascribed to him were all wrong, but what did reasons matter? The actions were the same. Finally, he bowed. "I shall not beg your pardon," he said. "I only wish--" He swallowed hard and forced himself to finish, "--that I were worthy of you."

Kal raised an eyebrow, but made no further motion as Bruce showed himself out and into the night.

* * *

Kal waited until he heard the front door close behind Bruce until he unclenched his fingers. He stared with a strange detachment at the half-moons bitten into his palms, then sank onto a chair, shaking all over.

It had been a moment of weakness: he had slipped into the room to find Bruce asleep, stretched out on the _chaise longue_ , and the sight had stopped him dead. Gone were the foppish gewgaws and frippery, the quizzing-glass and the jeweled watch fob and the spangled waistcoat. Instead, Bruce was dressed head to toe in sober black clothing, cut simply yet elegantly. On nearly anyone else it would have looked ridiculously severe, but somehow on Bruce it looked right. It brought out his high cheekbones, made his mouth look oddly vulnerable in comparison.

Kal had meant to use the opportunity to try and seduce him again, truly he had. It would have been easy: a caress to haunt his dreams, that left him half-awake and yearning. Instead, somehow he had ended up curled up in Bruce's arms, blissfully asleep as though he were finally where he wanted to be.

For a moment he had allowed himself to imagine what it would be like to wake in the arms of his husband, to be in truth what they were in law. For one moment--

He heard himself make a bark of harsh, humorless laughter. So Bruce had wanted a decoy, a sham of a marriage that would keep fortune-hunters and clinging lovers at bay while he pursued his unsavory activities. There was a certain bleak comfort to knowing that it wasn't _Clark_ that had been rejected, anyone who had married the Earl of Gotham would have suffered the same fate. Well, let him have his cards and dice, his rat-baiting and boxing! Let him waste his intelligence and wit on cock-fights and horse-races, squandering the gifts God gave him. Clark Kent would use his own gifts to help others and not waste even one more minute grieving for what might have been.

He dashed the inexplicable water from his eyes, straightened his clothing, and hurried back to the _salon_ to get back to work.

* * *

The Kent farm looked nearly the same as it had four years ago. The formerly-sagging barn was repaired and there was a new well, but otherwise it was nearly the same, and Bruce felt a sudden pang of worry: had his cheques not been reaching the Kents?

He hesitated at the door for a moment, steeling himself. There was a chance Clark was going to attempt to punch him in the nose, and Bruce was still undecided as to whether or not he would try to dodge. But there was no good fretting about it; time to finally face his responsibilities.

He swung the heavy knocker.

"My Lord!" Martha Kent's face was creased with astonishment as she answered the door. She shot her husband a confused look "What are you doing here?"

"I came to see Clark," Bruce said, removing his hat and bowing.

A heavy silence fell. Jonathan and Martha exchanged blank looks. "But he's not here, of course, my lord," said Martha at last.

* * *

Confusion reigned for a while, until finally Martha had insisted that no one speak anymore until they had all sat down and had some hot tea. They sipped in silence, each of them rallying their own thoughts, until finally Martha put down her teacup and said, "The truth is, my lord, that we haven't seen our son since he married you. Oh, we've received your money, but Clark has never been back."

Bruce put down his cup with shaking hands. Had Clark been set upon by robbers, killed and left in a ditch somewhere? Had he abandoned his husband to death?

He started as Martha patted his hands. "Oh no, my lord, don't go worrying yourself about his safety! We've heard from him, by post. Maybe once a month or so."

"There's no return address," said Jonathan. "But he sounds healthy and well. He says he's found work and has made friends. He sends some money in every letter, which is how we've paid for the new well and such things."

"Will you be wanting your money back, since you're not…" Martha's cheeks turned slightly pink, "Not living together as a wedded couple? We've saved most of it in case you came to ask for it."

"No," said Bruce, standing. "No, of course not. You say you have no idea how to contact him?"

"I'm sorry, my lord." Martha looked down at her teacup, then back up at him, meeting his eyes. "And even if we did, I should think you'd understand that we might choose not to tell you. You've treated him quite badly, you know."

Bruce put his hat on and drew on his gloves. "I know," he said simply.

* * *

"Is it one of Cobblepot's children, do you think?"

Kal shook his head at Diana's question. They were sitting on a rooftop together after another night spent stopping petty crimes and trying to uncover the location of Cobblepot's gang. "It's definitely an adult, not a child. And an adult working for Cobblepot would be following us. We've only caught glimpses of him, but he doesn't seem to be tracking us. He might not even be aware of our activities."

Diana slowly coiled and uncoiled her lasso, letting the shining golden loops trail through her fingers. “A gift from the gods,” she had called it, and Kal, who had seen it force the truth from the most hardened criminal, was not going to argue the point. "I sense no menace from him."

"Diana, we've only spotted him as a fleeting shadow," Kal retorted. "He could be a murderer. Or a figment of our imagination. I don't know," he snapped, throwing up his hands at Diana's dubious look. "I don't know anything."

"Something is troubling you, my friend," said Diana. "Will you unburden your heart to me?"

Kal reached out and took the end of her lasso in his hands, feeling its unearthly silkiness under his fingers. He wrapped it around his wrist. "I'm in love with Bruce Wayne," he said. He let the fog take his words, looking away from Diana as he let the lasso slip from his hands. "In love with a fop and a wastrel. I'm a fool."

”Indeed, you are not." Diana's smile seemed to warm the icy fog around them. "You would not love an unworthy man."

"People love the unworthy all the time," Kal said bitterly.

Diana shook her head. "You would never be drawn to a person who was not good at his core. Trust your heart, Kal." She stood. "Shall we do another circuit of Hyde Park before we retire for the night?"

As they ran along the rooftops, Clark wished briefly that he trusted his heart as much as Diana did.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kal Starr has a sudden and unexpected visitor--secrets are brought to light and much is untangled.

Bruce tied his mask on, then slipped out of the window into the night, running across the rooftops toward the address he had spotted on Cobblepot's desk. The night was--for once--free of fog, clear and bright. It was also bracingly cold, well below freezing. The slate beneath his feet was glazed with ice, and he spent more than a few moments in an exhilarating skid before his grapple caught on and pulled him to safety.

He paused just once, as he spotted the window of Kal Starr's room, filled with golden lamplight, in the distance. Then he turned away and kept going. That time was over. He would find the elusive Clark Kent when Cobblepot was defeated, would make amends. But he would not be seeing Kal again.

The scrap of paper led him to a wharf, the sound of creaking boats and lapping water filling the air as he gazed from a nearby rooftop. There were furtive figures moving around, leading a line of smaller figures, their young frames covered in dark cloaks. Bruce heard a sound of metal against metal as the line shuffled forward, and realized it was the sound of chains muffled by cloth.

Fury rose like bile in his throat, and he had to take a steadying breath, watching the steam from his exhalation lift into the air. He was choosing the best place to drop down and start fighting when he heard a small, hushed voice nearby: “Hst! Mister Bat, sir!”

He knew it right away as the voice of the boy from the other night; looking around, he spotted him on an adjacent roof, his face tight with strain. Soon enough Bruce touched down next to the boy in a swirl of dark cape. “Are you all right?” he asked. “How did you get away?”

“It’s a trap!” yelled the boy. “Run, get away!”

He started to turn, but it was too late. He felt the impact hit him low on the shoulder, knocking him forward onto the rooftop as the whipcrack of the blast rang out. He caught a glimpse of a young, horror-stricken face, and the horrifically familiar stench of gunpowder filled his nostrils.

“Mister, mister, I’m sorry!” the boy’s voice was far away and panicked as the world dimmed around him. “They said they’d kill Timmy if I didn’t--oh God--”

The boy’s voice cut off with a whimper, and then the world vanished away for a time.

* * *

He opened his eyes to see a puddle of his own blood starting to freeze at the edges in the bitter cold. He staggered to his feet, the world wavering around him. He’d lost too much blood, he knew it even as he started to scramble across the rooftops, his feet slipping, the merciless stars wheeling above him. He’d never make it home. Too far. He was going to die in the icy cold, and the children would be taken away. He had failed them.

He would never find Clark Kent and apologize.

He would never see Kal again.

There was a familiar window in his vision, a golden square in the gaping night. 

Beyond thought, beyond hope, he fell toward it.

* * *

_Observations on the Feeling of the Beautiful and Sublime_ slipped from Kal’s hand as he yawned. Immanuel Kant was incapable of holding his attention tonight, not when he was far too preoccupied with a specific beautiful being. He shook his head, angry at himself. _Stop sulking and get back to work,_ he admonished himself, and was about to stand up when the window shattered inward in a rain of jagged glass and a masked man plunged into his bedroom.

Kal had him by the throat and up against the wall before he could move. “Did Cobblepot send you?” he snarled, shaking the man as effortlessly as a terrier shakes a rat. It was almost a relief to finally have something physical to take his anger and frustration out on. He threw the intruder onto the floor. “Show your face, assassin!”

The man sprawled limply on the floor, and Kal realized with a shock that there was a long smear of blood across the polished wood. What had he done?

“Can’t,” whispered the man, his voice weak but familiar, oh so familiar. “Promised...never show my face here again…”

“My God.” Without thinking, he lifted Bruce in his arms. The back of the black jacket was soaked in blood. “What happened?” No answer. _”Bruce!”_

“Shot,” rasped Bruce. “Shoulder.” His eyes under the black mask glinted feverishly at Kal. “You said. Cobblepot. Need to...stop him.”

“Yes, of course,” Clark said. “Of course.”

A bloody gloved hand grasped at his cravat as if to pull him close. “Leave me. He’s...moving the children. At the docks.” He fumbled in his pocket, pulled out a piece of paper with an address. “Save them.”

“Kent, what’s going on--Christ!” Steve Lombard’s shocked face appeared in the doorway. 

Clark glanced at the bloodstained piece of paper, then shoved it at him, barking, ”Get this to Princess Diana at once! It’s of the utmost importance, man!”

Steve gaped a second longer at the masked man bleeding in his friend’s arms, then turned and ran.

Clark climbed into the window. “I’m taking you home,” he announced, clambering onto the roof with Bruce in his arms.

Bruce shoved at him feebly. “Damn you--save the children! There’s no time.”

Clark smiled down at him. “I’m faster than you think.”

And then he was plunging into the icy night and running across the rooftops in great bounds, faster and higher than he ever had before, with his bleeding husband in his arms.

* * *

The elderly man who opened the door of Bruce’s apartment spared only a moment for Clark before he took in the sight of the burden in his arms and his eyes went wide. “Put him down here,” he said, moving aside to point to a sofa in the hall.

“Take care of him,” Clark said. “I’ll be back.”

The man--it must be Pennyworth--had a black bag out already. Clark could see bandages, syringes. “Where are you going, sir?”

“We’re stopping Cobblepot,” said Clark.

* * *

Later, the captain of the guard walked out to find Oswald Cobblepot and a number of his men trussed up like Christmas geese on the garrison doorstep. They were all too eager to confess to their crimes, babbling wildly of a man--a berserker--a demon--who picked up the ship’s anchor effortlessly and used it as a bludgeon, who hurled men left and right as if throwing kittens, who snapped chains as if they were threads.

And then when they had fled the ship, they found themselves confronted with a woman--a goddess--a fiend from Hell itself, who had beaten them senseless, tied them up and hoisted them like a brace of rabbits to leave at the garrison gate.

The captain of the guard might have been willing to give them the berserker. However, the idea that a _woman_ had beaten them all--well, it was laughable, and made one suspect they had been hitting the sauce just before being beaten up by some angry circus strongman. They made dutiful notes before throwing them into jail, however.

If you had asked the children, you would have heard a different story, one with notably fewer demons and fiends. “He had the kindest voice,” said Stephanie. “She picked me up so gentle, it didn’t even hurt my busted leg,” said Timmy. “Angels,” said little Cassandra, a girl of few words.

But no one asked them, because they all went missing that night and were not seen again in London.

* * *

“Mr. Starr, I presume?” Alfred Pennyworth’s eyebrows rose as he looked at the man on his doorstep. 

“Is he--I mean, can I--”

“The Earl is resting,” Alfred said. “He has lost a fair amount of blood, but I was able to staunch the bleeding. He has been a fractious and difficult patient, these last few days.”

His emphasis on the last few words was slight but notable, and the man known as Kal Starr blushed. “I’m sorry I haven’t been in contact,” he said. “It was important I get the children to a safe place.”

Alfred’s face softened. “That is an excuse I can accept, Mr. Starr.”

The man looked uncomfortable. “That’s not really--I mean, you can probably call me--” He broke off and grimaced. “May I see him?”

Alfred Pennyworth stepped aside with a bow.

* * *

Bruce Wayne was lying in the middle of a vast bed, his muscular frame dwarfed by the sea of white linen. His eyes were closed, dark eyelashes casting tangled shadows on his cheeks. He looked very young, and Clark opened the locket in his hand to gaze at the smiling boy standing between his parents. So young, to have your life so shattered. So young, to dedicate yourself to a mad quest against the evils of the world.

“Kal.” Bruce’s eyes were half-open; he looked as if he were unsure if he were dreaming or not. 

“You left your locket behind some time ago,” Kal said. “I thought I’d bring it back.” He placed it on the vanity with a tiny _clink_. “Cobblepot is in jail, as are his men.”

“The children--”

“--are safe.” He drew near the bed, pulled up a chair. “It’s over.”

“It’s never over,” rasped Bruce, but his face was satisfied. He gazed up at Kal. “It wasn’t a dream,” he said, very low.

“What wasn’t?”

“After I crashed into your room, you--” He broke off. “We were flying.”

“It isn’t _flying_ ,” said Kal, discomfited. “It’s just...very long jumping.”

“Very long jumping,” Bruce echoed. He closed his eyes and took a careful breath. “And I was worried.” Another breath. “That you’d get hurt.” He almost smiled. “Idiot.”

“That you are,” Kal agreed. “Couldn’t you have just _told_ me? Let me decide if I was willing to take the risk? Did you really think I wouldn’t want to help you, do you truly think me nothing but a--”

A hand closed over his wrist. “No. From the very first time we talked, I knew you were--special. I should have trusted you. I didn’t--” He chuckled weakly. “I didn’t trust myself.”

Kal shifted so he was gripping Bruce’s hand, brought it to his lips. 

Bruce sighed at the touch of his lips against his fingers. “Kal,” he whispered. “Beautiful, brave, beloved one.”

Unable to resist any longer, Kal bent down and kissed him. 

It was a long, slow kiss, languid and gentle, yet with fire smoldering underneath it. Kal took his time, exploring the texture of Bruce’s mouth, breathing in the rhythm of his ragged breaths, savoring the feeling of stubble scraping against his skin, a reassuring rasp. _Alive, and no wastrel, no popinjay. A good man, a flawed man, a man worth sharing my life with._

He was so lost in his new and unfolding joy that he blinked in confusion when Bruce pulled back. “Kal,” Bruce said gently. “I can’t.”

“You--what?”

“I tried to find my husband,” Bruce said, turning his head on the pillow to look away from Kal. “To apologize, somehow. I know it’s useless, but...I went to his parents’, but they don’t know where he is. I have to find him before I can...before I can be with you. I know you understand. Four lost years...I have to make it right.” He looked back at Kal, his gaze determined but sorrowful. “The marriage was never consummated--I’m sure we can have it annulled. And then--then maybe--”

Kal didn’t know whether to laugh or weep. He heard himself make a strangled noise. “Oh Bruce,” he choked. “He’ll never let you annul your marriage.”

Bruce’s mouth twisted in agony. “No! You don’t know him, he’s a good man, he wouldn’t want us to be trapped together in a loveless marriage. I know he’ll let me go.”

“Never.” Kal’s voice was hoarse. He buried his face in the dark curls disheveled on the pillow, kissing them. “He’ll never let you go.”

There was a long silence; Kal heard Bruce’s breathing catch and shift. He pushed Kal back slightly, let the morning sun fall on his face. For a long time he gazed at him, and Kal watched regret and amusement and annoyance flicker and fade across his face, dying down into acceptance, and something like hope.

“Clark,” he whispered, and Kal closed his eyes at hearing his name spoken for the first time in four years, spoken with such love and longing. “Clark?”

He took a long breath, opened his eyes once more. Bruce’s eyes were full of wonder, his face framed by dark curls; he looked suddenly like the boy in the locket, loved and loving.

“Good morrow, my husband,” whispered Clark Kent.

* * *

A lilac branch whipped backwards, showering sweet-scented dew on Clark Kent-Wayne as his mare shied away from it. “Not so fast,” he called. “Alfred wasn’t pleased about you going riding at all. He’d have my hide if he saw you cantering around like that.”

Bruce made an annoyed sound, but slowed his black gelding down into a walk. “I’ve been going stir-crazy,” he griped. “It’s finally spring and I want to be outdoors and _moving_.”

His horse danced sideways, catching his restless mood, and Clark took a moment to admire the sight: Bruce in his elegant, well-cut dark gray riding coat (the flashy clothes had been abandoned the minute they had left London), the spring sun glinting off his dark curls, his crop tucked under his arm. Clark kicked his horse into a trot to catch up with him, and together they emerged from the woods and crested the hill to look down at the lawn of Wayne Manor, bustling with people. Conner and Tim were playing quoits and arguing, Jason was lounging in the sun and reading the most recent volume of _Pride and Prejudice_. Dick and Karen were studying French together, while Cass was chasing a startled rabbit across the lawn.

Diana was teaching Steph and Kara hand-to-hand combat, showing them a new stance. She rolled her eyes as Steph spotted Bruce and Clark at the top of the hill and broke off to wave; in a second Steph was flat on her back with Diana reaching out to help her up. Diana had still not fully forgiven Bruce for his treatment of Clark, but the chance to train a whole generation of young people in how to fight injustice had proven too powerful a lure to resist.

Alfred emerged from the Manor carrying a plate piled high with pastries and jam, a pitcher of lemonade in his other hand. The youths broke off what they were doing with shrieks of joy to converge on Alfred, each of them demanding attention; Alfred chided them cheerfully, beaming. He had been overjoyed to return to the Manor at last and had overseen a frenzied restocking and cleaning, which the former thief-children had joined in gleefully. Once all was in order, Clark had brought a large number of children from the Foundling Hospital there to live and thrive. Now the Manor halls rang with laughter, the old oak trees swarmed with smiling faces, and Alfred Pennyworth was always busily directing some activity.

“I want to show you something,” Bruce said, turning away from the idyll on the lawn with a smile and setting off into the woods once more.

A leisurely amble through the oak grove later, they emerged from the wood at the top of a bluff, overlooking the ocean. There was a white gazebo there, delicate and airy. They tied their horses up to crop the grass placidly and Clark followed Bruce as he strode across the sward to the gazebo. 

“This was my favorite place to go as a boy,” he said, looping his arm into Clark’s as they walked. “During the happy times. I’d come here to read and to dream. It was like my own little castle.”

As they stepped into the gazebo, Clark smiled down at the blankets piled neatly on the floor. “It’s almost as if someone has prepared for us being here.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Bruce sat down on the blankets, tugging Clark down with him. The murmuring of the sea and the soft sighing of the breeze in the oaks were the only sounds. “I think…” Bruce said between kisses, “That considering we’ve been married for more than four years...it’s high time...we consummated our union.”

“Are you--I mean, your shoulder--Alfred said--”

Bruce made an annoyed sound. “Alfred needs to stop babying me. Did he tell you not to have your wicked way with the invalid?”

Clark looked sheepish. “Well...not in so many words.”

“I’m not made of spun sugar,” Bruce said, kissing him with enough fervor that Clark began to think _he_ was going to shatter. Or melt. Or whatever spun sugar did when you were too rough with it. “Get these damned clothes off of me and I’ll show you.”

Bruce’s ascot was cool in his hands; Clark’s fingers trembled as he undid its knot and unwound it from around Bruce’s neck. The coat came off next, then the loose linen shirt, until Bruce was bare to the waist.

“You’re staring,” said Bruce with a shiver of a laugh in his voice. 

“I can stare at my husband,” Clark said.

“I suppose you can.” Bruce rolled away from Clark to show his back, the healing web of scar tissue there. “See? Almost all better.” 

Clark pressed his lips to the scarred shoulder, wrapping his arm around Bruce’s chest and pulling him close, breathing in the scent of him. Bruce shifted his hips, pressing back against him, and Clark heard himself make a low, breathless noise. He let his hand slide slower, trailing along abdominal muscles until it came to the top of Bruce’s breeches. “Your breeches are far too tight,” he complained as he undid the buttons.

Bruce made a considering noise. “You see, I thought they were just right,” he said. He rolled over onto his back to look at Clark with a twinkle in his eye. “They do get your attention.”

“They’ve got more than my attention,” Clark growled, throwing a knee over Bruce and pinning him down. He nipped at Bruce’s neck as Bruce squirmed, laughingly protesting. “There is no escape for you, my errant husband,” he announced. “I have you where I want you, and intend to punish you for your grievous behavior--whoop!”

He broke off with a startled noise as Bruce hooked his legs and threw him onto his back in turn. What followed was an extremely undignified grappling match which ended with Clark wearing only his loose linen shirt, barely long enough for modesty’s sake. Both of them were out of breath and extremely aroused, and yet slowly it became obvious that despite a lot of grabbing and grinding, no one was exactly succeeding at ravishing or being ravished.

For a long moment they lay tangled together, each half-dressed, panting. Then in a very small voice, Bruce said, “I have no idea what to do next.”

 _“What?”_ Clark stared at him. “But you’re an incorrigible rake!”

“I _pretend to be_ a rake, Clark. In reality I’ve been so busy with my plans for ridding the streets of crime that I, uh…” He shrugged. “Sex seemed unlikely to be something I needed to be good at.” He groped Clark’s buttocks with more passion than grace. “Besides, I don’t need to know what I’m doing, right? I mean, surely you…”

His voice trailed off at Clark’s expression. “Well,” Clark said, “I was informed about the basics, but I never--I mean, I never actually--implemented them.”

Silence for a moment. Then Bruce started to laugh.

“A notorious rake and a male courtesan, and we’re both utterly inexperienced! This is a tragedy, my husband. A tragedy. Shall we--shall we go back and ask Alfred for advice?”

Clark shook his head as Bruce’s giggles threatened to render him incapable of speaking. “I’m not letting another hour go by without hearing you say my name as you spend yourself,” he warned, making Bruce’s breath catch and his eyes darken. “How hard can this be, after all? We have mouths and hands, and their uses are quite, quite obvious,” he murmured, slipping his hand into Bruce’s unbuttoned breeches and wrapping his fingers around his length. The angle was odd, but it wasn’t _that_ different from what he’d been doing to himself for years now. “Steve always used to claim that he could get a man off in just five strokes,” he said, tightening his grip and feeling silky skin shift and tense beneath his fingers.

“Please--please don’t mention Lombard while--while you’re doing this.” Bruce’s voice was unsteady. “I can’t--oh God, that’s so good.”

“I don’t want you to be thinking of anyone but me,” whispered Clark.

“Never anyone but you,” Bruce groaned, his gaze exalted with desire, “Only you, my Clark, by husband, my--ah!”

His eyes closed and his hips arched upward as he came in long, steady pulses that left Clark shaking with his own need and yearning. Suddenly he understood the power that Steve had always bragged about, the power to leave a person speechless with passion, to plunge them so deep into sensation that they lost themselves. 

“My turn,” murmured Bruce after a long breathless moment, rolling over. Clark felt damp skin against his as Bruce pushed up his shirt, hands roaming under the loose cloth, dragging a groan from him. “I believe you said something about mouths?”

Bruce’s mouth had a wicked curve to it as he slid lower, delicately nibbling the skin at the base of Clark’s erection. 

“Oh Clark, I want to do every wonderful decadent thing with you that humanity has ever imagined. I will drown you in bliss, cherish every inch of you over and over. I’ll make it up to you, all my mistakes, all of my stupidities, I’ll--”

He broke off as Clark tugged sharply at his hair. _”The constant apologizing is getting tedious,”_ Clark had finally said a few weeks ago, while Bruce was still recuperating. _”Stop talking and start showing me you’ve changed.”_

“Stop talking and start showing me,” Clark said now, his voice unsteady, and Bruce made a happy humming noise and set about showing him indeed. 

Bruce’s mouth on him was awkward and unskilled and enthusiastic, and every touch was an apology and a promise, and Clark lost himself in the joy of it.

When, in later years, people asked them how long they’d been married, Clark and Bruce always dated the beginning of their marriage from that day in the gazebo: the sound of the sea all around them, the warm knowledge of their strange patchwork family waiting for them, their bodies entwined, at one at last.


End file.
